This past weekend there was enough free time in my schedule to sit down and enjoy the majority of a baseball game on TV. This is pretty rare because I have two kids, and a wife that's constantly motivated to go out and do something. But there I was, Saturday afternoon, and my beloved New York Yankees were taking the field against the hated Boston Red Sox. I've loved the Yankees for as long as I can remember, and I've hated the Red Sox even longer then that. The reason is simple: My Dad is a Yankee fan. He grew up in the Bronx, he got married in the Bronx, and together he and Mom gave birth to me in the Bronx. I only lived there for a year and a half so I'm not exactly a "New Yawker" perse... but by the time I was old enough to follow baseball, it was clear where my rooting interests would lie.

I can still remember staying up late on random summer evenings and watching Yankee games with my Dad. Of course we lived in New Hampshire in the days before ESPN took over the world. The only time the Yankees were on TV was when they were playing the Red Sox, and since New York wasn't exactly the team they are today, those were the only games worth watching anyway. We'd talk strategy, rant about the guys we didn't like, second guess manager decisions, complain about the bad calls, and above all else... root root root for the Yankees. It's one of those bonding moments that you don't really know is a bonding moment until you become a Dad yourself.

So again, Saturday afternoon... Yankees/Red Sox... and I'm watching the game when an odd  thing happens. My son, who isn't yet 2 years old, climbs into my lap to watch the game with me. He doesn't know the rules, he can't name a single player much less the teams themselves. It's obvious he has no clue what he's watching. But he knows there's a ball involved, and that makes him happy. He owns several balls, and he's getting pretty good at throwing them. "Ball" is also his all-time favorite word. So we sit there and watch the guy throw the ball to the other guy, and after each pitch he claps and yells "BALL!". That's when I realize what's happening here. It's not just his introduction to America's Pastime. It's not simply his indoctrination into Yankee fan-hood, although you can never start 'em too young. It's one of what I hope will be many bonding moments for us.

As a kid, there are always those times when your parents drive you nuts. They treat you unfairly, make you do stuff you don't want to do, and it can be hard to talk to them about anything. I was no different, but no matter what my Dad and I always had baseball and the Yankees. We still do. And I can only hope that years from now, my son and I will too.

So it's been months since I've last blogged. Just to recap my last few blog posts:

1. I had a vasectomy that was successful... I'm now sterile and completely harmless to the opposite sex. OK, not completely harmless, but you get the idea.

2. My March Madness effort was disastrous at best. My tips for you, the reader, were mostly blown to smithereens. The lesson, as always: I'm an idiot.

This brings us to now, June, and my last day at work before vacation... lovely vacation... wonderful vacation. I'm off for a week and half so I can drag the clan up north to see my parents. My son has traveled on a plane twice in his life... back and forth to see my parents last year... and the results were mostly nerve-racking. Now, one year later, we have to bring two kids with us and what started as a pleasant vacation has turned into a military operation.

Serving at the helm of this operation is General Rode. It is his job to mobilize the troops, strategize a plan of attack, and make sure his platoon has all the necessary supplies. Sitting at the General's right hand is Colonel Wife. She is the dispenser of snacks, the changer of diapers, the holder of tired babies, and the facilitator that makes sure the plan is executed properly.

Sitting beneath the General and the Colonel are Private Baby 1st Class, and Private Baby 2nd Class. They will be in charge of the whining, crying, and fit-throwing on this particular expedition.

Beyond buying the plane tickets, the planning for this trip started weeks ago. We decided a portable DVD player was a necessity for the trip. It's our only hope of occupying my son while sitting on my lap for three hours.  Have I mentioned the DVD player battery only lasts for 2 1/2 hours? Shoot me now.

Adding to the utter joy of this excursion is my 6-month old daughter who is teething, making her about as pleasant as Jesse Jackson at a Klan rally. This means we need pain relievers and various chew toys for her, and yes, we realize that may not be enough. Again... shoot me now.

Our carry on bag at this point is larger and more lumpy then John Goodman. We've got diapers, formula, baby wipes, snacks, juice, DVD's, the aforementioned DVD player, a change of clothes (in case the diapers fail us), bottles, cups, more snacks, books, toys, rattles, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. All of which will be sitting under the seat in front of me, meaning I'll have less leg room then a canned sardine.. all the while holding a squirmy 20-month old on my lap, a position he never spends more then 20 seconds in. You, the one with the gun, would you pull the trigger already?

General Rode and Colonel Wife have been in constant communication this week, relaying strategies, backup plans, and everything else that goes into a successful campaign. I can only hope that my platoon will stay focused on the task at hand, and will work together like a well oiled machine. Otherwise, this could be my Waterloo, Rode's Last Stand, you get the idea.

Once more... shoot me now... please?

Yes, it's that time of year again. Time for us all to waste hours and hours of worktime, pouring over brackets and trying to win the big prize in your office pool (if gambling was legal that is). Well, since I know not all of you have the time or energy to watch hours of college basketball... I thought I'd give you all some hints and tips so you too can be successful as I am. (Note: In 20 years of filling out brackets, I have won exactly 1 time... so take this all with a big ol' grain of salt)

And don't forget to join in the Daybreak Pool, for your chance to win a Super Special Daybreak Prize Pack.

Here now... are the 10 Commandments of March Madness

1. Thou Shalt Not Have All #1 Seeds In The Final Four

It's never happened, and even though I'm tempted to do it this year... I know deep down inside that at least 1 top seed will go down. I don't know who, and I don't know when... I just know.

2. Thou Shalt Never Pick a #16 Seed To Beat A #1 Seed

Again, it has never happened, although we have come close. Princeton almost knocked off Georgetown 20 years ago and there's always one #16 that hangs around longer then they should, but in the end they will lose. They always lose.

3. Upsets Are Interesting But Unimportant

Everyone loves being That Guy. The guy that picks the upset no one else saw coming. They waltz into the office the day after all grins and smiles. They show their bracket to everyone from co-workers to the barista at Starbucks. Then two days later that same bracket is sitting at the bottom of a trash can because they overdid it. They sacrifice the entire bracket, just to pick one good upset. This is a marathon, not a sprint.

4. Everyone Loveth An Underdog... In Round 1

Don't misunderstand Commandment 3, upsets will happen. And if you honestly believe the underdog has a shot to win their 1st round game, you should absolutely pick them. But keep two things in mind: 1st round Cinderellas lose their next game more often then not... and there are never as many upsets per year as you think. If you pick a #12 or #13 seed to pull an upset... keep in mind they might not last the weekend.

5. There Shall Be No Place Like Home

It never hurts to play close to home, and several teams will be the benefit of some home cookin' this year. North Carolina for example won't have to leave the state for their first 4 games (assuming they keep winning). If Texas wins their first two games, their next two will be played in Austin, TX. Playing close to home means more fans in the stands.. and that's always big in March.

6. To Thine Own Self Be True

Shakespeare... that guy was pretty smart. Another pretty smart fella is a guy by the name of Malcolm Gladwell. He wrote a book a few years ago... Blink.. about how your gut reaction is usually right. It has something to do with the subconscious part of your brain. It's a good read for nerdy nerds like me, but the point of the book is that overthinking often leads to incorrect decisions. If you just can't figure out who to pick, take a step back, a deep breath and write down the first team that comes to mind.

7. Thou Eyes Are Bigger Than Thou Brain

This is a corollary to Commandment 6, but applies more to what we call "The Eyeball Test". For instance, when you look at both teams which one looks better. There's nothing worse than picking a first round upset, then watch as 5 guys who look better suited to a computer lab than a basketball court play for your team. Some teams look bigger, faster and stronger... they are also usually better.

8. When In Doubt, Rock The Chalk

People who watch way more basketball then we do have spent endless hours figuring out who should be in this tournament, and where they should be seeded. So although we know no system is perfect, I'm more willing to believe someone who has experience on their side. If you're stuck, go with the higher seeded team. They're seeded higher for a reason.

9. Cinderella Is A Fairy Tale For A Reason

There is no story in sports more thrilling than the underdog that wins it all. Beats the odds. Wears the glass slipper. Shocks the world. Etc. etc. But the reality is that it rarely (if ever) actually happens. When it  comes to picking your champion, stick with the big guns. 21 times in the last 29 years, the National Champ has been either a #1 or #2 seed. 4 times it was a #3, once it was a #4, twice it was a #6, and once it was an #8.

10. Big Conferences Produce Big Winners

To win this tournament, you have to be tough. And tough teams come from tough conferences. Since 1991 every Champion has come from either the Big East, ACC, SEC, Big 10 or Pac 10. They are the biggest, baddest conferences... so they produce the biggest, baddest teams. Oddly enough, even though the Big 12 is considered an elite conference, they haven't produced a winner since 1988 when it was known as the Big 8.

The time has come people. My wife and I have two kids... we've reached our goal... now it's time for me to go under the knife and render myself sterile (in the surgical sense).

I've been told it's painless, it's harmless, it's minimally invasive, and it's really for the best. Understood, but it also involves sharp pointy objects in the relative vicinity of what I'll refer to from here on out as Manland. I am a lover of Manland. I have spent many painstaking hours making sure Manland is happy and well taken care of. Honestly, you wouldn't believe the crap I've had to go through in my life to ensure Manland is satisfied. Now I have to allow a strange man to attack, slice, hack, and cauterize Manland. It just doesn't seem right.

Anyway, this week I had my consult with the doctor who specializes in this sort of thing. I'm sure his parents must be very proud. For those that haven't been through this kind of consult, it's where Doc spells out the procedure in painstaking detail, then explains in even greater detail everything that could go wrong. Now I'm skittish enough as it is about this whole deal... so the last thing I want to know is every minute detail of the Manland Massacre. He even used pictures and charts... it was like the powerpoint presentation from Hell. This is one of those rare instances where ignorance is truly bliss. I'd much rather hear that he was going to sprinkle fairy-dust on my Johnny Rockets, wave his magic wand, and that's that. Instead I get the Howard Cosell play-by-play. Fantastic.

As if this wasn't enough to make me uncomfortable, he needed to examine me, which included a delightful (that's sarcasm folks) tour of my man-bag, and of course the ol' "Bend over and try to relax" routine. To his credit, he apologized the entire time he was elbow deep in my nether region... but he could have at least bought me flowers first.

Now we get to the good part: Discussing what will happen after the procedure. Apparently once it's all over, I can't have "relations" for a week. Oh really? I'm going to be walking bow-legged and Manland will have swollen to the size of a Prada bag, and you have to tell me not to dingle the dangle? I'm not going to let anyone get within a square mile of that particular body part... possibly forever. No problem Doc, I've got that part covered.

Here's something else I didn't know: After the snip-snip, you're not sterile right away. Apparently there are quite a few little swimmers floating around various areas of Manland... and they need to be dealt with. I was told that after everything settles down I will need to "cross the finish line" 20 times before they can check me to make sure everything worked. Now I'm pretty sure he meant that to take place over several days, but he never said for sure. I may be talented, but 20 is a pretty high number. Once you get past 7 or 8 chaffing becomes a serious issue here. Don't ask me how I know that.

The one upside to all this? They do the surgery on a Friday because you need 2-3 days to recover. I'll be under strict orders from the doctor to do nothing but walk from the bed to the couch for an entire weekend. Praise Jesus! I've been trying to plan that very weekend for years, and now it will be mandated to me by a professional.

It almost makes the Manland Massacre worth it.

Over the weekend, the apparent end of my youth arrived with my 30th birthday. Yup, no longer a "guy in his 20's", I am now officially a "man in his 30's". More specifically a husband and father in his 30's. Even though I'm thrilled to be a husband, and absolutely overjoyed being a dad... those two terms generally signal the end of an era. No more drunken nights of debauchery, waking up in a strange bed next to strange people after doing strange things. No more excuses for doing silly things like standing in line 22 hours for a Star Wars movie, or tailgating before a football game, or filming a movie about the destruction of a magical chocolate Ring Ding (don't ask... long story).

Nope, now is the time for mortgages, money market accounts, home decor, retirement funds, politics and other grown up activities and talking points.

But you know what? I'm fighting it. I refuse to go gentle into that goodnight. You know what I bought for my birthday? An XBox 360! That's right baby... by day I'm your average father of two who works an average job making an average salary, but by night I'm a video game-playing, ESPN-watching, beer-drinking nerd and that's how it's going to be.

And one day, when my son is old enough... I will buy him his very own XBOX controller and together we will win the Super Bowl, save the earth from aliens, and fight hordes of ninjas. Right after I take my vitamins, rub some cream on my aching knees, do my 20 minutes of cardio, and balance my checkbook.

Yes.. it's yet another movie review from your friendly neighborhood Newsman! And this time I'm actually reviewing a movie that's current. In fact it's brand spanking new. This past weekend me and the bro caught Cloverfield, the new monster movie from JJ Abrams, better known as the creator of LOST (one of the best shows on TV, when they get around to actually airing episodes).

The buzz around this movie started in the summer when a trailer ran before Transformers. There was no voice-over, and the movie didn't even have a name. There's been a bunch of stuff online prepping you for the movie, including a fun little game you could follow along with. Since I pride myself on being a nerd, you bet your sweet bippy I followed.

The good news is, you don't need any of that to enjoy the movie. Here's all you need to know: A real big monster is tearing up New York City. That's it, game over, turn out the lights, thanks for coming. The movie is actually "recovered footage from the site", or so you're told. This guy's friends are throwing him a good-bye party, one of his friends videotapes it, all hell breaks loose and the guy keeps the camera running through this whole crazy thing. It's an interesting way to present a movie, it also means if you get queasy watching unsteady home movies, you're either going to want to take some serious motion sickness drugs, or bring a bucket with you. The shakiness of the camera makes the Blair Witch Project look like Citizen Kane.

I really can't get too much more into the movie without giving stuff away, except to say that there's really not a whole lot to give away. Monster, New York, terror, death, destruction, things go boom, things go splat, things go horribly wrong. But it's genius is its simplicity. There are no wasted plotlines, no characters thrown in just to spice things up, no unnecessary scenes. The entire movie is boiled down to the essentials, which is almost a bad thing, especially near the end. For those of you hoping to learn the history of this monster, his thoughts, his feelings, and just why is he so angry with us... you'll be sorely disappointed. Those of you who want to see a fresh, new, different kind of movie... run to the theater with all speed.

I get so tired of all the crap Hollywood forces down our throats these days. Needless sequels, prequels and trilogies. Then there's the painful trend of remaking an old movie with all black actors, because apparently black people aren't allowed to see movies starring whites. Cloverfield is something you've never seen before.. which probably means the ripoffs, sequels and parodies are coming soon. Even so, I loved this movie... and would definitely see it again (provided I had taken a massive dose of motion-sickness medication).

Final score... 9 ice cream sundaes out of 10